Pay Me Back
by Glum n Dumb Skittery
Summary: Based on Jonathon Larson's Broadway show, RENT, featuring Racetrack as Roger Davies and David as Mark Cohen, and the 525,600 minutes they face following that fateful Christmas Eve.


**A/N: **My first attempt at something I consider rather large an undertaking. **All standard disclaimers apply.** R.I.P. Mr. Larson.

A rundown, before we begin:

David Jacobs as Mark Cohen  
Tad "Racetrack" Higgins as Roger Davis  
Luke "Kid Blink" Conlon as Mimi Marquez  
Jack Kelly as Maureen Johnson  
Sarah Jacobs as Joanne Jefferson  
Colin "Skittery" Kerr as Tom Collins

Eddie "Snitch" Buckingham as Angel Schunard  
James "Spot" Conlon as Benjamin Coffin III  
Young!Medda as Alison/"Muffy"

I have decided not to specify the year, though it should probably be considered a modern AU.

For those of you know who know the RENT storyline, good for you. Hopefully you'll understand the liberties taken herein to mold this already established plot to fit my means.

For those of you who don't know the RENT storyline: no worries. You don't need to. Just enjoy the ride. (But, of course, that goes for all of you out there.) Cheers.

**Pay Me Back**  
Disc One: Tell the Folks at Home

"And then he fired me. How could he fire _me_? I _bought_ half his equi — _argh_!"

"What'd you just say? Sorry, wasn't — …Ah, shit."

Big, obtrusive letters — bolded to enhance importance — big and bold and there. Their door is tainted by the black and white paper that is chalky to the touch. EVICTION OR PAY. (Followed by small print that is either contact information, liabilities, or long streams of profane babble made to look important while, in fact, illegible without aid of microscopes, magnifying glasses or other optically-enhancing instruments.) A nail gun has been taken to their door, impaling the paper and the wood behind it and holding it there for all to see. It feels very permanent.

Tad "Racetrack" Higgins is the first to absorb the gravity of the situation.

"That. _Fuck_."

His roommate, David Jacobs, goes for the more objective route and nears a panic attack in the tedious process, pulling at his curls, pupils dilating. Shaking hands rip the notice from its post, leaving behind a shredded wreath of chalky pulp around the rusty nail.

"How're we going to pay _last year's _rent?"

Racetrack is incoherent in his fury. "We're hungry and frozen as is," is the only understandable bit he is heard muttering as he opens the door roughly, knocking his wrist against the jam in his haste.

David is quite beside himself, holding his head in his hands and dropping onto the ratty sofa, one of their only pieces of furniture, and groaning dramatically. "Some life we've chosen. Can't even get Sp — I mean _James — _(bastard), to turn on the damn heat. Thinks we'll kick curb just as soon as we freeze our balls off."

"Inspiring visual, Davey." Race makes to kick off his shoes, but decides against it at the last minute. They haven't had heat for three months.

"I aim to please," David replies wryly, grinning sickly sweet.

The Italian flicks him off without looking up. "Ass."

One of them hits the rewind button on the answering machine, whose top left corner is partially chewed and otherwise mauled. The tape reel clicks loudly when it reaches its end and Race presses play with his free hand, the other half of his body tangled in the unfortunately chai-colored scarf that was once around his neck.

BEEP. "I'm on my way over. Race, you still owe me eight dollars." BEEP.

"Why do you owe Skittery eight dollars?"

"Lap dance."

"…"

"…You suck with the whole sense of humor thing. We were hungry, I had no money, he bought me food." A long, long stare. "Fuck you." Race flings the finally free scarf at the other.

"Ew, why does this thing smell like— "

"Your face smells like, that's why."

BEEP. "This is James. Dudes, I'm on my way: I need the rent. Don't fuck this up." BEEP.

"Greeaaaat," Race drawls, digging in his jacket pocket for a cigarette.

David's face falls. "Shit."

BEEP. "David? David, are you there? Are you screening your calls? It's mom. We wanted to call to say we love you! — "

David jams the stop button in the force he exerts upon it. "Satan's wife, thy name is Mother." His face is twisted unattractively beneath his fringe, making him look quite identical to a Jedi with dawning realization of a bad case of the runs. (Oh, the force.) Racetrack laments his lack of money which explains his present lack of camera or film. He is sure the many people on the street who would have passed the Xeroxed posters of a scornful young man who is otherwise an explanation and key piece of evidence for evolution would worship his photography skills.

But, alas. The world will never know David's penchant for awkward moments fueled by monumentally unattractive facial expressions. Racetrack tries not to dwell on this for long.

Like any good friend, he starts up the answering machine once again, allowing the torture to come to its climax. He rationalizes with himself that, this way at least, the torment will find its conclusion and thus, will not haunt his wonderful roommate of a friend's long and cold winter night dreams. He is doing one David Jacobs a monumental favor. He should be worshipped. He is a merciful _god_.

"— we'll miss you tomorrow! Les and the kids are here and send their love. Oh! I hope you like— "

Gesticulations have never been quite so close to a Native American tribal dance. "You are a horrible friend and I hope whatever you next happen to eat is heavily laced with laxatives and something that tastes bad, really bad. Like wilted cabbage. In maple syrup. Or arsenic. At just the moment that our toilet is blocked up. Again. 'Cause we have a shitty apartment, and I blame this on God — "

"Shh. You're missing all the parts that I can blackmail you with later." Racetrack thinks that maybe they both have a frightening fetish for the workings of the excretory system.

For some reason, David does as told and shuts up. This is probably because he is a Virgo.

"Oh, and David, we're sorry to hear that Jack dumped you. Let it go, honey. Let him be straight. There are other fishies in the sea! I promise." BEEP.

It becomes painfully clear that Racetrack is doing his very best not to cackle.

"I hate you right now. I am now going to go and eat your food," David calls out as he heads for the kitchenette with the dingy overhead lighting that threatens to fall down in bursts of spackle and plaster confetti every other time the front door locks shut. "I disown you, man. _Disown_ you. You are dead to me. All your food are now belong to me because you are disowned and dead and no longer need your food."

"Davey. We have no food."

A few crickets actually would have chirped here, had crickets been idiotic enough to have resided in the rundown buildings of Avenue A.

"Tha - I - you - use your guitar. I'm going to use your guitar by selling it for money to buy— "

"You will be dead if you do. Dead and lying bloated in some sewage pipeline in Brooklyn if you so much as touch my guitar. A sewage pipeline with rats, Davey. And alligators. And ralligators that are the sole and pitiful fault of interspecies breeding. Fear the RALLIGATORS, Davey."

Simultaneously, they come to once again understand why it is they are living together in the first place. At the very least is their wit appreciated.

Overhead, the lights flicker and the electricity is audible through the walls. Snap, crackle and pop. The power blows.

"Not again."

The two men sit in contemplative silence, picking at threads on the sofa, trying to ignore the frost that covers their windows and mocks their last unpaid heating bill. Silently, they shift closer together, enough to steal body warmth off one another's close proximity. An argument would normally start here about who's boggarting whose molecules, but there's a voice from the streets that carries up their three flights. It may be a man with multiple personalities. Or a drunkard. Sometimes it is very difficult to tell the difference. It is rather distracting, to tell truth.

"…So, where do you suppose Colin is?" David blinks rapidly, trying to adjust to the dark. The whole block's down, it seems, and even the street lights aren't anything to count on.

Racetrack cracks his knuckles, bored, itching for a guitar to occupy his hands and mind. "Where is he? Don't know. Wooing women. Many, many scantily-clad ones. That dance on poles. To Korean rap music. Maybe." It explains, at least, why his mouth wanders so.

An eyebrow lift. "Maybe Korean rap music or maybe to that entire heterosexual fabrication?"

A shrug is exchanged. It is manly and silent for the next couple of minutes. Or hours. When it is dark and winter and money is no longer a common commodity, it is often hard to tell.

Racetrack scowls at the shadows on the wall, too cold, too lazy to seek out his instrument. There are dirty dishes in the sink, he notes. He contemplates doing them in the dark, then wonders if they even have soap to do them. Or maybe he can just…_rinse_ them. Really well. And get Skittery to lick the leftover residue clean. Would Skittery do that for him? Probably not. …Well. Maybe for eight dollars. Race has eight dollars. It's been a good day. But Skittery wouldn't be that desperate. This train of thought is starting to agitate the poor boy's head. "Fnrgh," he says.

David ignores him in favor of making the more astute observation of the night: "It's cold."

_Meanwhile, somewhere on the streets…_

Colin Kerr isn't entirely sure how it happens. One minute he's dreading a week of having to hear shouts of "SKITTERY!" or "Skitts!" or "Skittsophrenic!" or "Skittles!" and "The Skittster", "Mr. Skittsmeister!", "Teh Skittz!" and other explanation mark-plagued variations thereof in reference to, yes, _him_, all by Race alone — (dread is a bit of an understatement, really) — and the next thing he knows, he's flying. Yes. Really, truly flying. And not liking it so much. Because he knows what's going to happen.

There are splendid shoplights all around, adult bookstores and 7-11s, all tiny and dirty and watching him with bright, fluorescent eyes. He's a one-man show. He's the amazing Flying Man. He's hurling through the night air, deaf and mute and sure everything's suddenly been switched to slow-motion, being the Divine Plan of Buddha and God and Allah and the rest, at some party after scribbling down such notes on cocktail napkins to do it on Christmas Eve of this very year. To him, of course. Also, he thinks, Satan might have had a bit of a hand in this as well.

His motorbike is usually always very reliable. He can't blame this on Tina. Tina isblue and shiny and very, very reliable. Always. (Well, maybe not _always_blue and shiny. But reliable, yes. VERY.) The car had been the one passing through the red light. He'd been thinking about Christmas. Christmas and New York and the eight dollars Racetrack Higgins would never pay him back, at least not in this lifetime. The light had turned green. He'd revved up and thoughtlessly gone, no side glances, just pure speed, dry eyes and a contentedly loud engine. The world was dull and only the sound of wind within his helmet. And then that black Mazda had to come into the picture. Impact. Sickening noises, crunches and screeching, nightlife coming to a halt, the world holding its breath in twisted anticipation. Flight.

It's the sound of metal cutting into metal more than the screeching tires and hobo gasps that get Snitch's attention just then. His mind shuts down completely, going blank so fast he nearly blacks out. Long legs move without much prompting, the music store counter he's supposed to be watching now forgotten, the drumsticks in hand falling with a clatter to the floor, coherently he manages a quick, "Call an ambulance" to the new girl with the crew cut, trying to clean the keyboards with a dirty rag. Then he's gone.

Already a crowd's gathering and, for what? To stand around and gape, not doing a damn thing. "Hopeless," Snitch mutters, though slightly high-pitched for the panic he's in. He's not even sure why, just that he's scared and he has to get to the middle of this mob to _see_. The inner-Snitch that resides within his head, often to kick against his skull and have parties and such at the most inopportune of times, tells him that he is sick and twisted and didn't you always used to hate those people that fish-faced car accidents and gossiped while it was going on?

Snitch never liked inner-Snitch all that much anyway. He jerks his head a bit as he pushes his way through the ragtag crowd, and loses inner-Snitch to the stamping of feet and tries to pretend he doesn't hear the obscenities that come from somewhere on the ground. Inner-Snitch is abandoned.

"Is he okay?" A woman in a hoodie is chewing her right thumb and knitting her eyebrows to collision.

"He's bleeding!"

Two men to the side of the inner ring breathe smoke into one another's faces and talk through tangled bears. One says, "Nice jacket, eh?"

"Don' e'en try it. 'E's still alive. Well. At leas' I think 'e is," the other mumbles, eyes wandering off halfway through to the sky, his lip coordination failing him as his concentration falters with the unseen stars.

"Everything's rent, here, buddy. I can take it if I wanna." One does a very good impression of a snarl. He trips over his shoelacetrying to put out his joint.

Snitch can acknowledge that he does not, in fact, hate them all with a passion, but is instead exasperated with their lack of good Samaritan-ness. They stand around a very battered body, thrown from a motorcycle no less, and talk about who gets to keep this jacket — this _stranger's_ jacket. The world, he thinks, has officially fallen from grace. A headshake is clearly in order.

The sight is not a pretty one. There's at least a very broken wrist by the looks of the swelling, maybe some ribs too by the way the man's shirt crinkles awkwardly on one side of his chest in ridges that aren't natural. But there are no blood pools and he appears to be breathing. That, Snitch notes, is the main point. Just for his own security, he tries to remove the rider's helmet, finding his fingers unable to do so without jostling the man's head. Snitch's brow furrows in frustration. He lifts the rim of it enough to get a pulse from the man's neck and finds one after several seconds; his skin is still warm, if not gravel-embedded and nicked in several places. This man was lucky.

A groan. Conscious enough to reach up with what is fortunately his good hand, remove his helmet; his head falls back to the concrete harshly. He doesn't seem to care.

Snitch winces at the bruise blooming on the young man's forehead, green and yellow with a hint of lavender. "You okay, honey?" he says as softly as he dares.

This is bad, Skittery thinks with all the clarity he can muster. Already he can see the fuzzy outlines of black creeping in from the edges of his eyes. That usually means unconsciousness and waking up with a deep need to rid his body of all the best meals he can remember. He tries to fight it, but knows it is a losing battle when his head spins and for a moment he thinks he's actually standing up. The world reorients back to his actual horizontal state. He wonders of that deep need to puke is going to be severely premature or not.

It takes longer than passable for "okay" for the words to completely register. The stranger's face is fuzzy. Only brown is recognizable. "'Fraid so," he mumbles. "Everything's brown. …I feel sick." At least, he thinks that's what he says. His mouth doesn't quite work as well as he wishes it would. It comes out mostly sounding like, "Erig's round. Ee lick." The stranger doesn't seem to mind. Skittery doesn't consider for a moment that he may be getting ignored.

"The ambulance is here. I'm Eddie. Buckingham. …Well, just call me Snitch. I'm going with you to the hospital."

And then Skittery really is sick.

Snitch doesn't know why, but his hands move instinctively to keep the poor man's forehead out of his own projectile vomit. "Concussion it is," he murmurs. "Stay awake."

Badly bruised Colin Kerr does what he is told. He trusts anyone who does not flee from his bouts of sickness. He wonders why he trusts Jack Kelly. Then figures thinking with what he is told is a concussion is turning out to be Not So Good. It also calls for much capitalization.

The stranger holds his hand tight.

_Back on Avenue A…_

"I let it slide!" James Conlon is angry.

"You said we were 'golden,' jerk!" This may be because Racetrack Higgins is very blatantly invading his personal space. Their noses just about touch. From the smell of it, he has had tomato soup for the past year or so.

"We were roommates and doing fine until you had to go and _buy_ the fucking building because Muffy— "

"Medda." James ponders biting his ex-best friend's nose off. But then considers the fact that it would probably taste horrible. Or like tomato soup. Neither or which he is fond of getting to acquaint himself with.

"— told you to." There is pain in the finger the shorter man jabs into his landlord's chest, but he tells himself that it is worth it for the spawning annoyance it brings. He pokes "shave and a haircut" to further his point and own amusement.

David takes this moment to interject from his perch at the bay window whose hook doesn't fit properly, leading out to the fire escape. "Actually, her father did."

"Oh, yeah. Him." Race chuckles. "He really hates us."

"Guys, I mean it." James turns 'round, away from his once-roommates, stuffing his hands into his pocket, nervously squeezing the leather gloves tucked away within.

Tossing a stray sock at Conlon's head, David sneers. "We mean it, too. You're wasting your time. We're broke. It's Christmas Eve, Spot. You know, Happy birthday, Jesus, and stuff. Good will to all men. Hard concept for you, I understand— "

"You also broke your word. You're an Indian giver landlord, Spotty, my boy. That's what you are. INDIAN GIVER LANDLORD," Racetrack says loudly, pointing indecently to accentuate his words.

"My name is _James— _"

"What's a good Native American name for him, Davey? Married to Evil, perhaps? He Who Goes Back on His Promises? Chief Big Jerk Wuss?"

"Squatting Dog? Running Traitor? Demanding Lackey?"

"There IS one way you don't have to pay…"

The two tenants exchange identical looks of disgust. "Knew it."

"What is it? Lick Muffy's shoes?"

"Actually freeze our balls off?"

"Race can give you a lap dance."

Spot deadpans them both, not amused. The two remember a time when he would have joined in the banter right there with them, forgetting the argument in its entirety in the process. Their relationship used to be easy like that. Everything's changed. "Tempting. Really."

They go on without him. "Your mom can give him a lap dance, Davey."

"Yeah, your god can give him a lap dance."

"Ouch. Burn. Not even a 'your face' build-up?"

He has to stop it before _they_ forget without him and he's left standing there, an idiot and enemy, and has to start all over again. He nearly has to scream it over their laughter. "Stop Jack's protest and I'll forego the rent."

The mere suggestion of it renders the opposition suddenly speechless. For all of twenty-eight seconds. "I know you weren't one to ever pay attention, Spot, but, you know, that is what the police are trained to do." Spot hates David.

"Go to hell. I have them on standby. My investors— "

Another sock is thrown. "Cough father-in-law cough."

"— would rather I handle this quietly." Spot hurls the dirty offering into their sink, sending a cockroach fleeing from the depths of its unmentionables.

"Right. So you're going to wipe out an entire tent city and just go home and watch It's a Wonderful Life on TV? The size of your heart overwhelms, Mr. Conlon. Really. It does." David's eyes narrow, the tiny lines that appear when he's exasperated crinkle in clusters at his temples as he frowns.

His friends are a journalist and a songwriter. They are poor. Spot knows how to convince them. "Look, you want to freelance write and sing the day away? You need somewhere to do it. We used to dream about this shit. We can set up shop and rent rooms over us. We'll have it made. You'll see."

Racetrack Higgins is thoroughly not convinced. He is, in fact, so thoroughly unconvinced that he deems Conlon worthy, for once, of an official flick off. So he gives it to him. "Yeah? Well, see _this_."

Mr. Conlon likes to think he's above such obscenities. He throws his head back, hair slick, nose in the air, and makes for the door. "You have till tomorrow night to give me an answer, Higgins. Same for you, Jacobs. You'll see. Or you'll pack."

The two roommates glare at the door for lack of the calmness needed to do anything else. Race shakes his head in disgust. "Jack's protest better kick ass."

"Copious amounts of ass. Like Spot's face."

"Hehe."

The phone rings.

"SPEAK." BEEP.

"This message is for Mr. Tad Higgins or Mr. David Jacobs. Uh. My name is Eddie Buckingham, and your friend Colin was in an accident. He's being held at the hospital off Avenue H, um, but he's alright. Your number was on speed-dial on his cell, so…I hope this is, you know, okay. Please come down if you can, I think he'd appreciate that."

"I'm going." Race grabs his jacket and keys. It's going to be a long night.

_To be continued…_

**A/N: **Any other variations of Skittery's name would be greatly appreciated.


End file.
